


the first Arrangement, or, Why Crowley Hates the 14th Century

by Brownies96



Series: Good Omens Missing Chapters [5]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 100 Years War, 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Multi, Pre-Slash, historical fiction - Freeform, ineffable husbands, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-11-23 05:10:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20886650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brownies96/pseuds/Brownies96
Summary: The first time Aziraphale agrees to the idea Crowley proposed 800 years earlier and what happened.In Crowley’s opinion, the only word to adequately describe the 14th Century was ‘shit’.





	1. Everything Sucks

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic for this fandom so I really hope you all enjoy it :)

In Crowley’s opinion, the only word to adequately describe the 14th Century was ‘shit’. It had been an absolute mess. He’d been appointed to create trouble in the English monarchy. That could have been nice; comfortable rooms with fires blazing (in-house fires were a wonderful invention in Crowley’s opinion, probably because entire houses catching fire was something that miraculously never happened to him), better food than the over boiled slop most of the country was eating (not that he ate much), and unlimited access to wine (which he definitely drank).

But even with all that potential to be pleasant, it wasn’t. England was a damp, marshy wasteland as far as Crowley was concerned. Why had the Vikings liked it so much? And he was beginning to suspect that he had been forced to stay there as a punishment for not ruining King Arthur’s peace.

This particular job had started with Edward III. That wasn’t so bad, he was very easy to tempt. For 50 years all Crowley had needed to do was point out how very claimable France looked, and that if you looked far enough back, French royalty could look like his birth right. What Crowley didn’t say was that the royal houses of ‘Christendom’ – as they called themselves – were all so intermarried that just about anyone could claim anything. And boom, a war that was predicted to last quite a while was well underway.

“Come on,” he’d whispered in Edward’s ear, “You have as strong a claim to France as you do England, really.” He’d said, hoping he could pop down there on one of the campaigns, especially if it was Summer, that would be excellent. But even if it didn’t lead there, he had other plans. Plans on top of plans.

And if tempting the king to war was easy, then tempting him with women was even easier. Edward III had managed to have more children than was good for anyone, and all of them were potential troublemakers in their own right. After all, you couldn’t be born to power and not have the ability to tip the scales in anyone’s favour.

The reports he’d sent back about Edward III had given him some shred of hope, that maybe he was just doing well enough to be appointed to something cushier next time. Maybe they needed someone to ruin some lives in Southern France? Or Egypt? What was Egypt up to these days anyway? Israel had been nice, maybe they could bring the Crusades back? No, that wasn’t original at all. You’d have to be running out of ideas pretty badly to suggest another crusade.

But then Edward III had died, of a pretty nasty abscess, causing a stroke. His doctors were promptly fired by means of removing their heads from their bodies, and suddenly Richard II was king at the ripe old age of 10. At first, Crowley had thought this would be easy, after all, Richard’s father, the Black Prince, had been a wonderful warmonger himself, he could just sort of continue the tradition. Richard, however, was not having it. At 14, he’d done away with a peasants’ revolt (that Crowley had privately thought was a very reasonable response to his governing) and seemed to be determined to cement himself as the worst ruler of anywhere since Caligula (Crowley did not have fond memories of Caligula).

When even his lords had revolted, Richard had somehow managed to scrape enough power back to make sure they were painfully aware of who was really in charge. And that was when the games began.

Crowley may have taken responsibility for these as far as Hell was concerned, but frankly, they were disgusting. The worst was the game where Richard would assemble the entire court in a grand hall and stare at them in silence. If the King looked at you, you had to immediately bow and declare your loyalty. Fail to do so, or hesitate, and you were next on the chopping block.

Richard II had also insisted on new forms of address. “Your highness” just wasn’t good enough for him, it had to be “your royal highness” or “your high majesty” if you wanted to live. Crowley was sick of it all. Richard II was like Hastur in one of his moods, and Crowley took so many jobs on Earth specifically to avoid those. Well, that was one reason anyway. All he could say about Richard ‘s court was that everything sucked.

Perhaps, if someone were to ask Crowley why he hated this all so much, and he had downed several tankards of mead and wine. He might have said something along the lines of, “this is not what I rebelled for,” before immediately realising he had said too much and refusing to talk to that person for the rest of the evening. In Crowley’s mind, he had fallen for demanding a ‘why’. For wanting reasons for the things they did, for why humans got free will but were mortal, and why angels (some were now demons) had no free will but immortality. And while She was at it, maybe some explanation for why She was so determined to test humans, as though life were a pub quiz they had signed up for rather than something they had no choice about.

It had not been to watch this happen.


	2. Why not order me to make a pig fly? It’ll be a lot quicker and the only people who believe it’s impossible are humans.

Aziraphale, on his part, had been avoiding England altogether for quite some time, about 800 years in fact. There were plenty of reasons for this: the deeply mediocre food; he missed his friend, King Arthur; the cold; the damp. But all of these were really just peripheral to the fact that he, a principality of heaven, had been tempted by a demon. And perhaps worst of all, he hadn’t reported it.

What would he have reported anyway? “The demon, Crowley, whom I most definitely haven’t been sharing occasional meals with, nor enjoying his company, and certainly not laughing at his jokes, since the Garden, tempted me today by pointing out a very real flaw in the systems that govern Heaven and Hell because between the two of us we cancel out each other’s work”? That would have gone over well.

That wasn’t to say he hadn’t seen Crowley since then, after all, the Earth was only so big. But when they had seen each other, he had been sure to keep the interactions short. Well, shorter. Well, one meal only unless it had been a particularly good day. After all, by keeping Crowley occupied he was preventing demonic work, wasn’t he? Even if last time had made him reconsider a great many things . . . It simply didn't do to dwell on such questions.

Recently, he had been asked to watch over a small village in Orléans called Dorémy. All Gabriel had told him was to make sure the village existed and that its citizens were particularly respectful of the Almighty. Gabriel had also said that Aziraphale was doing this as a favour from Gabriel to Uriel and that, to use Gabriel’s words, “Aziraphale if you manage to mess up this simple task . . .” before smiling threateningly and striding away.

So, the village had turned out quite nicely, mostly because it wasn’t important enough to attract any real attention from anyone. So Aziraphale didn’t have to worry about any demons showing up. As interesting as that might have been.

It was the August of the year 1399, Aziraphale was enjoying some bread and Maroilles cheese which he was sharing with the priest, Père Gaël, a rather charming young fellow who had recently ascended to the position. He had sought out Aziraphale for his advice regarding the best way to translate his Latin bible into French, for Aziraphale had built up a reputation as a competent scholar of Latin. The villagers didn’t need to know it was because he had lived in Rome.

Naturally, as soon as Pére Gaël walked away, there was a conspicuous flash of lightning behind Aziraphale’s little cottage. Conspicuous because it was the middle of Summer and there was not a cloud in the sky.

“Gabriel,” said Aziraphale, carefully stowing away the last of his cheese before Gabriel could see it.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel’s smile was tight. “Good news, you’re done here!” He laughed his rather fake sounding laugh. “Uriel says you can have a commendation.” Gabriel’s smile flickered for a moment but was back in place before he continued. “We need you to go sort the situation in England out.”

“Sort the . . .” Aziraphale trailed off. He had heard a little about what was happening in England. His village had been a rather nice respite from the politics of the world, and an easy way to avoid Crowley (not that he was hiding, of course, that would be ridiculous). He didn’t particularly want to leave.

“Yes, the situation in England needs to be resolved peacefully, the Almighty demands it. I’ve come here direct from Metatron,” Gabriel said.

“Oh my, um,” Aziraphale began, “Are you certain you want me to-“

“The instructions were clear.” The expression that had appeared on Gabriel’s face earlier reappeared, it looked rather like he was sucking on a lemon. “You, Principality Aziraphale, will go to London and ensure that Henry of Bolingbroke becomes king, in a way that involves as little bloodshed and feuds as possible.”

“W-without bloodshed?” Aziraphale asked very quietly.

“Apparently it’s supposed to set some sort of precedent, getting rid of leaders they don’t like without killing them,” Gabriel shrugged.

“Wasn’t that the whole point of the Magna Carta? I can’t imagine there’s any need-“ Aziraphale was cut off.

“Aziraphale, you will go to England and you will solve this.” Gabriel punctuated this by walking over to the door. He then turned around and looked at Aziraphale. “Now.” He said, snapping his fingers, transporting Aziraphale to London.

Aziraphale stared at the city around him, it was a lot to take in compared to his tiny village. His chin wobbled slightly.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” He said to no one in particular.

He was not angry at Gabriel per se, more . . . upset that everything had to happen so quickly. After all, it was an impossible task they asked of him. He wanted to go find Gabriel and say “Why not order me to make a pig fly? It’ll be a lot quicker and the only people who believe it’s impossible are humans.” But he was painfully aware that wasn’t something he could do.

He took a (completely unnecessary) deep breath, and marched into the city. Henry Bolingbroke was easy enough to find, he was in an alehouse near the palace with Lord Arundel and they were congratulating themselves for their fine job of denouncing King Richard before all of Parliament. This would have been a perfect time to approach them, but instead he saw a dark figure in the corner.

The last time he had seen Crowley, he had been posing as a maid (rather ironic, really) of Margaret of England, his hair up in a black crispinette (which was certainly a look). Now, he was in more masculine garb, his hair still long, but unbound. A black cotehardie hung off his lanky frame, and he was rapidly beginning to drink himself into a stupor, his eyes hidden by a pair of tinted Italian eyeglasses that pinched the bridge of his nose.

Despite knowing full well that this was a terrible idea he found himself walking over. “Hello Crowley.”


	3. Mead was a very good invention but no one knows who to give credit to

“Aziraphale!” Crowley said, his words only slurred slightly, which implied he was pretending to be drunker than he was. “Haven’t seen you since the-the thing with-“

“Margaret of England, yes. Poor dear,” Aziraphale finished for him. “What exactly are you doing?”

“Trying to forget that this century ever happened. Care to join me?” Crowley waved his tankard at Aziraphale, knowing full well that the smell of honeyed, spiced mead would be enough to convince him.

Crowley was pleased to see that Aziraphale only wrestled with his conscience for 5 minutes and 31 seconds (not that he was counting, why would he care?) before agreeing to drink.

If Crowley was being honest with himself, which he seldom was, he would have been glad to see Aziraphale. The last hundred years or so had made him feel . . . well something, he didn’t quite have a word for it yet. But it had been rather like Falling again.

Falling was not something demons liked to talk about, especially not to each other. It was too painful to even think about most of the time, so demons did what they did best, covering up their feelings by acting out against the Parent who had abandoned them, following the lead of King of Hell - and repressing his feelings - Satan himself. Though if Satan was the king of repressing his feelings, then Crowley was a similar king of a much larger country. But back to the point about Falling.

The most painful part wasn’t the physical fall, or the burning of his holy essence into something new. It was losing Her grace. Losing any connection to the almighty. She may have been silent for a long time, but her presence had been everywhere and once an angel had Fallen, truly holy things seemed to exist just to remind them what they had lost. It was like a part of them had been removed and they were left to fill it with bad deeds and anger. This is why holy water kills them, because it is the Grace that has been taken away from them.

For a while there before Ancient Rome, Crowley had a moment where he suspected that he only enjoyed Aziraphale’s company because it reminded him of Her. After all, Aziraphale’s kindness was a bittersweet reminder of what he’d lost. But then he’d made a joke about temptation and Crowley realised that the Almighty had never joked like that, She’d never really spoken much except to deliver orders, and then not at all. Aziraphale talked about lots of things. Even the first time they’d spoken he’d talked where most angels would have huffed and flown away. But not Aziraphale. From the moment he’d said “I gave it away!” Crowley had decided that Aziraphale was easily the best and only holy being he could ever like. Not that he was going to mention that to anyone, of course.

But its hadn’t stopped him from seeking Aziraphale out. Disappointed as he was that the angel seemed to act more like a generic angel than the Aziraphale from the Garden. But every now and then Aziraphale would show himself just enough to keep Crowley interested in this strange angel. Just interested though, nothing else. Definitely not.

So it was with interest he listened to Aziraphale’s tales of Dorémy, and made a mental note to check out this village should he ever have the opportunity, not that he expected to. And it was interest alone that had him watching the regret flash across Aziraphale’s face as he talked about how quickly he’d had to leave, and if Crowley’s human-shaped chest hurt at the same time it was because he’d swallowed his mead too quickly. 

And when Aziraphale asked him about his time in England, it had been because he was drunk, not because he was lonely (demons don’t get lonely) or sad (demons don’t get sad) or starved for affection (demons definitely DON’T get starved for affection), that he shared all of the awful stuff he’d borne witness to and influenced.

“ . . . and I’m just bloody exhausted!” he said, sweeping his arms around “I didn’t even know I could get this exhausted!”

“Yes you do, you said the exact same thing in Rome.” Aziraphale slurred.

“Did I?”

“Well maybe not exactly.”

“S’probably the mead,” said Crowley. “Great invention, mead, I think it might have been one of our better ones.”

“It wasn’t,” said Aziraphale, “because I’m pretty sure it was one of ours.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

What neither Crowley nor Aziraphale were aware of, was that mead was neither a divine nor diabolical invention. Mead, as the English knew it, had been invented by a particularly bored widow one morning in Bronze Age Ireland, who had decided to leave some diluted honey in an air-tight pot for a few years, just to see what would happen. Fortunately, Aziraphale and Crowley’s conversation drifted topic quickly, in the way only drunken conversations can.

“I haven’t seen you this upset since Caligula,” said Aziraphale, a little steadier since their argument had meant he’d had to stop drinking for a minute to dispute Crowley.

“M’not upset,” Crowley said sullenly.

“You are, and I’m sorry you’ve been through it all. You don’t deserve thi-“

“Don’t deserve this!? I’m a bloody demon, this is exactly what I desssserve, that’ssss the whole point!” Crowley growled, his face mere inches from Aziraphale, so close that Aziraphale could see over his eyeglasses and into his yellow eyes, filled with a combination of rage and despair.

This was not a conversation they ought to have. Mostly because they really ought to have been arguing opposite sides. Aziraphale should have been the one saying that this was what Crowley deserved and Crowley was meant to be disagreeing. That argument, between an angel and a demon was happening several times a day all over the planet, basically whenever an angel made the mistake of talking to a demon or vice versa.

“I think,” said Aziraphale very carefully when he realised this, “That we ought to sober up.”

“Ss’pose you’ve got a point.” Crowley said, having realised the same thing.

The barmaid, a woman of some 40 years (impressive in 1399), was very surprised to see a barrel of mead, that she could have sworn was empty, completely full.


	4. It’s not really going against orders, more going about them in a different way

“So,” Crowley said, filling the silence that had permeated his room in the castle since the recently sober angel and demon had entered it. “You’ve been sent here to get rid of old Dicky-boy.”

“Well, erm, yes. I’m supposed to help Henry Bolingbroke ascend the throne peacefully.” Aziraphale said.

“Hah!” Crowley barked out a laugh. “Good luck with that.”

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale, ignoring the sarcasm. “I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to do it. I mean, I’ve been living in a tiny village in France for the last 150 years! I haven’t had to deal with politics for ages.”

“Well, they did say ‘as little bloodshed as possible’, so what if some of it is inevitable? As long as you say you tried . . .” Crowley peered over his eyeglasses to eye Aziraphale carefully, preparing himself for the fight that usually came after this suggestion.

“I couldn’t lie to them, Crowley.” Said Aziraphale with a sigh. This was not the answer Crowley expected. If this were a Temptation, this would be when he would consider the person about to give in, all it would take were a few more questions, “Would a just God really let this happen?” was one of his favourites. But this was not a Temptation. This was Aziraphale.

“Is it really lying if you do try?” He asked instead.

“It is if I go into this already believing I’m going to fail.” Aziraphale said, still sighing.

Perhaps, if Aziraphale weren’t an angel, and Crowley weren’t a demon, and they were instead humans just trying to get by, they might have hugged at this point, giving one another a squeeze of sympathy. But they weren’t. So instead Crowley just looked at Aziraphale sympathetically, hoping that he’d get the message, but also hoping every bit as much that he wouldn’t.

“Tell you what,” Crowley said, brushing away his moment of compassion with all the bravado he had. “I’ll give you a hand.”

“Oh, oh Crowley,” Aziraphale began, “The risk to you. My dear fellow, it wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Nah, my lot don’t care who’s in charge as long as they cause lots of trouble.” Crowley lied.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow.

“OK, they care a bit, but I can put some demonic spin on it, tell them the chaos of an inconsistent monarchy is bad for the soul or something.” Crowley said, holding onto his blasé attitude by the skin of his teeth. “And think about it: It’s not really going against orders, more going about them in a different way.”

“Well, I suppose, if it’s not too much trouble . . .” Aziraphale smiled, just a little smile, but enough of one that Crowley found the corners of his mouth turning up too.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale walked quickly across the courtyard at Westminster. Their strides full and earnest, they looked more purposeful than those milling about the castle, trying to avoid the King and his temper.

Fortunately for Crowley the Archbishop of Canterbury was outside the Abbey. If he started hopping all over the place, they’d never manage to tempt-erm bless-erm talk to him. His Grace was talking to a servant in whispered tones. An ordinary human would not have been able to make out any of the conversation. But these were not ordinary humans on their way to visit him.

“I thank you, my child. Return when the clock strikes an hour hence and I will have a delivery for you to Henry of Bolingbroke.”

“But, your Grace-“

“There will be a sovereign in it for you if you can keep your mouth shut.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

The servant hurried away and Crowley and Aziraphale took the opportunity to engage him in conversation before he went inside.

“Pardon us, your Grace,” said Crowley with an irony only visible to Aziraphale, “But we were wondering if we might have a word.”

“I’m afraid I’m rather busy right now,” said the Archbishop.

“Oh, but this won’t take a moment, and it’s very important.” At Aziraphale’s words the Archbishop’s mouth hung open, he was suddenly transported back to his childhood, sitting in mass, enthralled by the light of the Lord. Before he’d become mixed up in the politics and rituals of the church.

Aziraphale did hope he hadn’t overdone it.

“Uh, certainly. What is it you would like to discuss?”

Crowley gestured to Aziraphale, as if to say, ‘he likes you, go on.’

“It’s regarding the matter of Master Bolingbroke.” Said Aziraphale, not sure what to say next.

“We’ve heard, that you might be considering championing him.” Crowley took over.

“I would never! I am loyal to my sovereign ruler, anointed by Go-“

“Oh don’t worry about that!” Crowley said, because he didn’t care to hear it and not because Aziraphale was looking very uncomfortable at this mention of the Almighty. “We’re not here to rat you out to the King.”

“Oh,” Said the Archbishop.

“In fact, my friend here wanted to speak with you about the theological implications of all this, he’s an avid student of the scripture.” Crowley said, passing back to Aziraphale smoothly.

“Yes well, it’s as the Psalms stated at 125:3, ‘For the sceptre of wickedness shall not rest upon the land of the righteous, So that the righteous will not put forth their hands to do wrong.’ . . .” Aziraphale began.

* * *

“It can’t be that simple!” Aziraphale protested on Tuesday the 30th of September 1399, as the Archbishop of Canterbury called for the abdication of King Richard II.

“It is, most of the time.” Crowley said, toasting Aziraphale with his goblet.

Aziraphale toasted back. He’d have said it was out of habit, but it wasn’t. “Well, I suppose I ought to thank-“

“No.” Crowley shut him off. “No one ever finds out about this. It didn’t happen.”

“I suppose that’s for the best. Quite right.” Aziraphale said, uncertain why he suddenly felt as though he was swallowing a lead weight along with his wine.


	5. I swear I didn’t do this one

“Aziraphale, I have to say, I’m impressed.” Gabriel’s brittle smile still in place as he shook Aziraphale’s hand. It was the end of January 1400, and the two angels were the only beings not effected by the ice-cold draught that drifted through the doors of the abbey. In fact, they had specifically chosen this place to talk because no human could withstand the freezing temperatures that surrounded them.

“I have to know how you managed to do it,” Gabriel said.

“Oh well, um, it’s all in the report I sent back.” The report that had been written by Aziraphale, embellished by Crowley, and then edited once again by Aziraphale.

“I was surprised by the report,” said Gabriel in the same way one might comment on the weather, “I have it on good authority that there is a demon at work here, but you say you didn’t encounter any problems?”

“No,” Aziraphale said very quickly, “I-I was just lucky I guess.” Aziraphale felt his smile grow tight.

“Well, let’s hope that luck continues. Or doesn’t. It’s been a while since you enjoyed a good smiting, hasn’t it?” Gabriel’s violet eyes were fixed on Aziraphale, examining him in a way that had him wishing he was somewhere else.

“Oh-erm, yes, it has been a while, I suppose.”

“Well, you’ll be hearing from me soon for your next assignment, so in the meantime, do good.” Gabriel turned to leave.

“Of course, what else would I do?” Aziraphale had meant it as a joke, but somehow, the words had changed to defensive on their way to his mouth.

Gabriel looked at him one last time, eyebrows arched, before disappearing with a flash.

Aziraphale berated himself. He had wanted to ask about Dorémy, despite knowing that Gabriel would never have indulged the questions. Ah well damne- blessed if you do blessed if you don’t, as the saying almost went.

Aziraphale supposed he should go visit Crowley, not to thank him, that was a terrible idea, but to let him know that Gabriel had accepted the report. The last few months ought to have been rather dull, but with both Crowley and Aziraphale staying in London, they were bound to run into each other quite a bit. In fact, if Aziraphale didn’t know any better he’d have suspected that Crowley might be intentionally orchestrating situations where they’d run into each other. Aziraphale had never thought of himself as a social creature, but he was finding the company rather enjoyable.

Only stopping to perform a quick miracle – that poor lady hadn’t heard the cry of “gardez l’eau!” over the sounds of her baby’s wails - he wondered over to Crowley’s rooms at Westminster.

He could hear something through the walls, something along the lines of, “Shit shit shit shit shit fuck!” He knocked politely on the door.

“Bugger off!” As a general rule, demons do not sulk, but it is also a general rule that demons do not go out of their way to see angels, so it’s probably fair to say that Crowley was an exception to both.

“It’s me, Crowley.” The door opened.

The first thing Aziraphale noticed was the smell, he had stopped noticing the ‘evil’ scent of Crowley after enough time, but this wasn’t Crowley. “You’ve had a visitor?”

“Yeah.” Crowley curled his upper lip in distaste. “Ligur came by to congratulate me.”

“Well, that’s goo-erm bad isn’t it?” Aziraphale asked.

“He came to congratulate me on something called the ‘Epiphany Risssing’, and we are well and truly fucked, or at leassst I am.” Crowley took a (completely unnecessary) deep breath. “A group of people who were doing well under Richard are going to try and put him back on the throne.”

“But-but he abdicated.”

“They don’t care about that! They’ll just say Henry forced him to do it and everything will be back the way they want it.” Crowley made a face. “What’s that thing you’re always saying about evil and seeds?” He changed track so fast it took Aziraphale a moment to catch up.

“That evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction?” Aziraphale offered.

“That one. Yeah.” Crowley took off his eyeglasses. “I swear I didn’t do this one. Not on purpose.”

“Crowley, my dear fellow, what are you talking about?” Aziraphale sat down on the only chair in the room, an old rickety thing that screamed ‘put together by the carpenters new apprentice in the early hours of the morning’.

In turn, Crowley collapsed his frame onto his bed and sat up, in a movement that was somehow both a tangle of limbs and graceful. Crowley peered at Aziraphale, wondering if he should tell him. It had taken him nearly a millennium to convince Aziraphale that they could work together. Was this asking too much? Telling Aziraphale of his many mistakes. But Aziraphale just sat there, somehow managing to sit on that chair with an ounce of dignity. And his eyes weren’t full of judgement or loathing, just curiosity. He just seemed so . . . dependable. Crowley wondered if this was how humans felt around Aziraphale, and if it was, then surely humans would be tripping over themselves to spill their hearts out to him. It probably got rather annoying if they did.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale spoke gently and Crowley realised he’d just been sitting opposite him, staring.

“Right, er,” Crowley wanted to put his eyeglasses back on right now. Where had he put them? There they were, he shoved them back onto his face. “Have you ever, um, taken a liking to a human?”

Aziraphale blinked, “I suppose . . . There have been humans who I have particularly liked, King Arthur for one. Did you ever meet him?”

“Yeah, sort of.” Crowley shrugged. “Well there is-was someone at this court who I, erm . . .”

“Took a liking to?” Offered Aziraphale.

“Yeah, that.

* * *

Some 19 years earlier Crowley had first encountered John Holland. He was half-brother to the new King and the differences between them were quite striking. John was handsome in the medieval lord sort of way; he wasn’t so badly inbred that his features were over-pronounced like Richard’s. But the thing that had drawn Crowley to him was the fact that, despite being very bit as bad as the other lords of the court, he was rather sanctimonious. He was perpetually overlooked because his brother was the one who was King. But instead of hating his brother and having the temptation potential to be turned jealous and murderous, he instead decided to make the best of his situation, and to take every advantage that came his way. Including making sure he was seen as being particularly holy.

The night before the King was supposed to announce who had received the order of the garter, John had approached Crowley.

“Don’t think I’ve seen you here much,” John had said as they stood outside the cathedral, waiting for King Richard to leave.

“M’not much of a fan of mass,” Crowley replied lazily.

John made a surprised noise before continuing. “Or on a hunt.”

“M’not much of a fan of horses either.”

“So what exactly do you do all day?” John was rather indignant sounding, probably because he himself was rather a fan of both mass and horses.

Tired of being pushed, tired of England, and in the mood for some fun, Crowley replied, “Oh you know, tempting people to sin, ensuring souls are collected for Hell.”

John made another noise that sounded something like a squeak. “Are you some sort of demon then?”

Crowley just raised his eyebrows. At this point, John had something of a crisis. On one hand, he had been raised a Christian, and taught to obey God in all things. On the other hand, he had heard of what demons could do for one and his ambition surged to meet his morals in a rather impressive battle. Perhaps it was because he was standing beside a demon, or perhaps it was just curiosity that tipped the scales.

“So you could get me the Order of the Garter for a price?” John had said, surprising Crowley. Humans ordinarily had to be tempted a lot more subtly than this.

“Oh yes, for the low, low price of your eternal soul.” Crowley had said, properly looking at John for the first time. He was grinning, the twinkle of something in his eyes.

“That doesn’t seem very fair, to only get the Order of the Garter for my entire soul.”

“Fair’s got nothing to do with it.”

“What about a deal?” John said, moving so he was standing in front of Crowley, only a few inches apart.

Crowley decided he liked this human, it had been a very long time since someone had tried to verbally spar with him, acting as though they were equals. “What’ve you got in mind?” Crowley smirked.

The following day, John Holland received the Order of the Garter.

John Holland, like all people at court, soon made a mask to wear. He had made a point of appearing to be a god-fearing citizen, but underneath was every bit as rotten as the apple of Eden would have been if it was still around all these years later. Crowley first saw it in 1385, when he’d murdered a man who’d come to him to apologise for the slight he’d committed.

John had screamed at Crowley afterwards, when the letter had come from Parliament demanding that he forfeit his lands after that breach of the rules of hospitality. “You get my soul, get me my lands back!” He’d spat at Crowley. And for some stupid reason, Crowley had gotten them back and a high-ranking wife for John as well.

Crowley had forgotten something about humans: They change much more quickly than angels or demons. Perhaps, four years earlier Crowley had been corrupting a pious young man (and even that was up for debate given how quickly John had agreed to be corrupted), but now he was stuck with someone who’s soul was worth very little, as it was already bound for Hell.

Crowley managed to get him sent away with his new promotion, easy enough to get rid of him. But like a bad penny, he kept coming back. In 1397 he returned to demand even more of Crowley.

“Make me Duke of Gloucester,” he’d demanded.

“I think,” Crowley said, blaming himself for the damage but still angry at the man who had once been John, “that you have forgotten what you’re dealing with.”

“No. I think you have. The deal was my soul in exchange for whatever I want, and I want to be Duke of Gloucester.” The man who had been John’s words were like ice.

To presume to own a demon, to have one at your beck and call, is hubris even Hell cannot stand for. Crowley would be laughed out of Hell if anyone ever found out he’d let things go this far. That he’d stayed simply for the memory of the pious boy with a twinkle in his eye.

Crowley glowered at him. It was quite an impressive glower, the sort that made the hairs on the back of your head stand up. A curse rushed through the air at John and in moments Crowley had disappeared. Definitely not to his rooms to mope and sleep. Demons didn’t mope, or sleep for that matter.

John had taken his anger out on Thomas of Woodstock, the current Duke of Gloucester. He was made Duke of Exeter for his efficiency in dealing with traitors to the crown. Crowley hadn’t attended the ceremony where this was made official.


	6. He has to die

“And now,” Crowley said, he’d put his eyeglasses back on during his story, “he’s gone and grabbed a couple of mates and they’re off to try and kill the new King.”

Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what to say. They had never had a conversation like this before, at least not sober. He had an odd compulsion to comfort Crowley, but that was entirely out of the question for a list of reasons longer than most books in the Bible. But he believed Crowley, despite every angelic mandate he had ever heard, this was not what Crowley had wanted and there was only one solution: The one’s responsible for the Epiphany Uprising had to die, and so did former King Richard, to make sure it never happened again.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a steely glance. “I’ll take care of it,” he said leaving the room.

Someone with more insight into their own emotions might have questioned the sudden anger that had bloomed within Aziraphale. But Aziraphale simply convinced himself it was righteous fury and most certainly not anger that a human had hurt Crowley and absolutely not jealousy that a human had gotten to be Crowley’s friend (perhaps more, Crowley had been deliberately vague) and then thrown it away.

It was easy enough to whisper in the king’s ear “he has to die, you won’t be safe until he is dead,” and even easier to watch impassively as John Holland had begged for his life. Ordinarily this might have moved him to pity, but he was rather looking forward to watching his soul fall to Hell. It was as though Aziraphale had gone cold, he had become the angel Gabriel wanted him to be, uncaring about individual humans, an icy presence of vague beneficence.

All of that melted when he saw Crowley after the execution, a small, vulnerable, half-smile on his face. That is to say, it happened at the same time as seeing Crowley, no relation of course. And if Aziraphale followed Crowley to the palace kitchens it was for entirely holy reasons.


	7. So this is a thing

Crowley picked up the letter on Aziraphale’s desk, he’d heard about some people miraculously being cured of the pox up near Kimbolton, and despite his hatred of the marshes and cold, he’d found an excuse to pop up here himself.

_To the Principality Aziraphale on the 12th of January 1448,_

_This is an official reprimand regarding your involvement in instating King Henry IV of England. It has been made clear that your behaviour in instating this King has led to the current Lancaster vs York situation. Thereby, you are to leave London for Kimbolton immediately to take care of the pox, should you return to London and meddle in the new team of Angelic Intervention you will be summoned back to Heaven for further punishment._

Crowley stopped reading the letter. Something that felt uncomfortably like guilt was worming its way through him. It was a very unpleasant sensation, one that Crowley would very much like to avoid in the future.

He waited for Aziraphale for quite some time, it could have been all day.

“Crowley? What are you doing here?” Aziraphale arrived looking as haggard and tired as a being of pure celestial goodness can.

“I was in the area.” Crowley shrugged, disguising the lie.

“Well if you don’t mind I have quite a bit I need to-“ Aziraphale paused when he saw the letter face-up on the table. “I suppose you saw that then,” he said stiffly.

“Yeah, erm, look, I’m . . .” Crowley was determined not to apologise, imagine if it got out that he’d apologised to an angel. But he really hated that feeling of guilt, twisting its blade in his gut. “I’m sorry this happened.” He said softly, as if he hoped Aziraphale might not hear him. He took off his eyeglasses without even realising he was doing it.

“Thank you.” Aziraphale said, equally softly. They stood in silence for a moment, the severity of what had just happened weighing them down. Fortunately, Crowley’s bravado was more than up to the challenge.

“Anyway,” he said, knowing that the last time he had suggested anything like he was about to, Aziraphale had avoided him for about 800 years, “how about I get this one?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, angel,” Crowley tasted the nickname on his lips, “that I’ll deal with the pox here, go do something particularly good somewhere else, get back into their good books, or go check on your village, It’ll be fine.”

“Oh, oh!” Aziraphale was looking at Crowley properly now, his expression unreadable, “My dear fellow, are you quite sure?”

Crowley shrugged, aiming for nonchalance and only missing by a fraction of an inch, “Yeah, sure.”

“Well, erm, in that case,” Aziraphale steeled himself, “I’ll let you know where I end up, feel free to pop in, erm, if you have the time.”

Crowley wasn’t sure he could believe what was happening, but the he wasn’t about to question it, not when it made him feel like he’d just spent several hours in the sun. “Ssure,” he said, “um, likewise.”

For a moment it looked as though they were going to shake hands, but that would have been ridiculous, so they didn’t. Aziraphale offered Crowley a smile that most certainly wasn’t tucked away for later, and was gone one miracle later.

“Right,” Crowley said to the empty room, “So this is a thing.”


End file.
